Entry XXXIII--Why Do You Think They Call It Hope?

WILL LIKELY BE COMBINED WITH 'INCOMNPLETE', "HOPE' WILL BE THE TITLE

The cheap fluorescent light of this patient room stings my eyes, as they finally open ever so slowly. And that's with bandages partially covering them, along with most of my face. At least that's what I feel with my bandaged fingers. Without a mirror, it's hard to know exactly what's going on.

Obviously must not be in that bad of shape; no tubes connect any part of me to any life-support systems and no mourners are presently standing over my battered form.

Two things bug me; one is, I don't know what time--or day--it is. How long have I been out?

The other thing is; where is Cassandra? Is she laying in a bed of her own in another wing of this place?

Hell, maybe she's one bed over--my peripheral vision isn't all that right about now.

Then, as if by cue, Ms. Cabal enters the room, looking as fit and put together as I feel mangled and broken up.

"Darwin--I came as soon as you woke."

Don't need to ask if a nurse told her that; no nurse was necessary--she just knew when I awoke, like she fucking knows when everything happens.

"Thank you, Ms. Cabal." Such an extended sentence hurts my chest a little

"How do you feel, Darwin?" the concern etched in her tone hangs valid.

Ignore it for an impatient query: "Where's Cassandra?" After all, she doesn't have to ask me how I feel--she knows.

Still, Ms. Cabal is having none of it; "I know you are confined to a hospital bed and that you are in a considerable amount of physical pain and mental anguish, Darwin, but watch your tone with me, do you understand?"

"Yes, Ms. Cabal."

"Good. Cassandra has already been released from the hospital. She was treated for minor shrapnel wounds to the side and back of her head, but they were merely surface abrasions. You both were very lucky."

"Why isn't she here, then?"

"She flew back to San Francisco this morning, she had personal matters to attend to. She told me to tell you that you should call her when you get the chance."

My heart races faster at that news, and Ms. Cabal detects the glimmer in my eyes--pissing me off, for some reason. Like she's prying in on something special, even sacred to me.

Change the subject: "So, what's wrong with me?"

"A very mild concussion and a few minor lacerations on your face, including one that came dangerously close to your eye prior to Cassandra reaching you and shielding you from the rest of the explosion."

"So I didn't just imagine that--Cassandra actually pulled that off."

"That's why I hired her," Ms. Cabal assures me.

Something else occurs to me: "By the way, where the hell am I?"

"St. Anthony's Hospital in West Los Angeles."

"What is he the patron saint of?"

"Healing skin diseases."

"I guess whatever happened to my face counts for that, huh?"

"Sales of your book went up to 420 percent since the bombing," Ms. Cabal informs me, in a ever so matter-of-fact manner.

"And that's just what we wanted. Reckon we should schedule a bombing every week, huh?"

"Spare me your sarcasm, Darwin."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Cabal. It's the intense pain, remember?"

"I should inform you that the right-wing media is already accusing us of staging the bombing."

"Damn, if I had known that, I would've worn a goalie mask during the lecture."

Ms. Cabal cracks a rare, if slight smile.

Shaking off another layer of grogginess, another concern bubbles in my brain: "Speaking of the bombing, what happened to the guy who did it? Did they catch him?"

"Death caught him. It was a suicide bombing, Darwin."

That sends chills down the ol' spine, more so than I would have suspected. But then, maybe that's why the question was couched as to whether he was apprehended, not whether he was still alive or not.

Not sure why, but it freaks me out. Another human being actually killed himself over me; my writing; my book; my thoughts. Not only that--he was trying to kill me, and probably anyone else within shrapnel range...

...which inspires another question: "Was anyone else hurt or--"

"Two of your readers seated near the front were also sprayed with shrapnel and have likewise been released from the hospital with only minor injuries."

"So I got the worst of it?"

"You were the primary target, Darwin."

"After the bomber," I chuckle. "What was his name?"

"Brian O'Leary, 25 years old."

"Ah, a fine Ir-r-r-ish laddy, 'tis sure he was a good cath-o-lick boy!" I goof in a mock Irish brogue.





"You already think he was an operative under mind control," Ms. Cabal informs me.

"But of course. It has all the earmarkings of a black op conducted by fascist christian elements in US Intelligence. Am I wrong?"



"Don't you?"

"I don't care for that tone, Darwin."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. You're tired and should get some rest. You need your restorative sleep to see you through this. If there are no further complications, I am told you should be released tomorrow afternoon sometime. You will be picked up by a driver I hired to take you back to San Francisco in a private town car, you should be back in your apartment by midnight tomorrow night. The driver is also a security guard so he can provide you with necessary protection. I'll be flying back tonight to the city, but it's best if you are driven because of your concussion."

"Yes, Ms. Cabal."

"When you up and about the day after your return, call me."

"Yes Ms. Cabal."

WHAT DO I LAY THERE AND THINK ABOUT

Did I catch a piece of schrapnel before Cass covered me?

Is Ms. Cabal standing over me when I wake?

Entry XXXII--Making Demons out of Old Gods

After Denver's paranoia proved to be a waste of time, resources and confidence, L.A. got more lax, as far as our attitude. Sunny skies probably had something to do with it too; Denver had been grey winter already before Thanksgiving.

Ms. Cabal was particularly enthusiastic when her limo picked me up from the hotel; though Halloween is a good release date for the book, there was the possibility of all the momentum we built being dashed by the christian-dominated holidays; so she had the briiliant idea of marketing the book to atheists and freethinkers during the holidays; "Not sure what to get that non-christian in your life? For some people, the holidays mean the Bible...for others, it's the Bye Bull"

Ms. Cabal is convinced the publicity alone from the ad campaign will keep the book's name afloat during the holidays, and then in January, she's devised a second-tier marketing strategy to regain the momentum of Nov and make the Bye Bull a force into the new year. Her committment both astounds and frightens me.

I'm also in good spirits as the limo takes us from the 405 to the I-10 and Santa Monica, where Freethought Books awaits me and my newest composed essay that I wrote on the plane. After facing my fear in Denver, and seeing it wasn't worth anything, I wrote an essay that struck me as a logical follow-up to the essay on fear, which is kind of the penultimate concept when dealing with christianity, at least on this book tour. It was in the air when it struck me, the concluding topic that would bring the tour to an altogether symmetrical cessation.

For once faith is exposed, and the fear that props faith up is transcended, then it cleanly follows that the notion of god/christ as deities to be worshipped can be safely abandoned. From there, I tied it into the notion that when one dominant religious system is replaced by a new one, the gods of the former religion become the demons of the succeeding religion.

For confirmation of this, look no further than how pagan gods, such as the ancient Semetic CEO god Hadad, also called Ba'al ('the Lord'), quickly became hell-dwelling demons once christianity became firmly securing its tentacles around Rome and beyond.

So with that in mind, came up with a ficitious scenario not unlike the one I used in the 'Fallacy' essay, but it still struck me as both novel and appropriate, and I'm not about to miss this opporutnity to share it with the audience

Sketching out the final notes as the limo pulls into the parking lot. All is quite and serene, not a protestor in sight or within earshot. Despite the bookburning of Atlanta, the liberal demonstrating in Boston, the nuttiness of New York and the hangover paranoia in Denver, it seems like the tour's going to end on a high note, here in Southern California of all places.

Step out of the car and allow the West L.A. sunshine to bask my body with its combination of healing vitamin D and deadly UVB radiation.

Who care's if it's decadent SoCal? It's just good to be back in California; though the north beckons as always.



"Jimmy Perkins stepped sullenly into his expansive, two-story suburban home. The statue of Gaia perched over the entrance. He sneered at it, and clutched at the chain in his pocket. The chain he couldn't wear around his neck. Not yet; he wasn't in the safety zone.

"Without saying a word, Jimmy made an immediate buzzline for the stairs, but his presence was not lost on his mother, who called out: "Jimmy, make sure you recycle before you do your homework. And don't forget, this Saturday, instead of going to Goddess Temple, we're planting bushes at Logan Park, so make sure you wear your overalls.'"

"Oh, Jimmy heard his mother, but he didn't pay much attention to her anymore. Recycle this, plant that, meditate on this, sustain that. He wasn't into it; not anymore.

"You see, Jimmy had a new interest, a new thrill. To reinforce this feeling, he reached back into his knapsack and clutched at the CD case. He was careful not to pull it out, lest his parents or sister ask him what it was. He didn't want to lie if he didn't have to.

"Jimmy closed his bedroom door, sat down at his computer, put his headphones on and started playing an unmarked CD, that a friend had surreptitiously burned and then slipped to Jimmy in class during a test of all things. It was the latest unreleased and underground album by the band Crossroads. Their name was a sly reference to their spiritual leanings in this era when such thoughts were totally taboo.

"On the CD was the music his parents told him not to listen to any longer. And if they caught him listening to it, they would punish him within an inch of his life.

"But Jimmy didn't care. He didn't care what his parents thought about his music; he was 16 now and the music spoke to him. They wouldn't let him grow a beard or long hair either, but he was growing it anyway. Well, the beard was coming along slowly. He also started wearing that thing around his neck they told him he couldn't wear. Well, he didn't wear it when they went to Grandma's house. He wasn't that brave. That would have to wait until he was 18.

"And when the lyrics he had already memorized were sung, the familiar words rang through his ears

"When is my Lord coming back...to me? When will He finally set...me free?"

"The mix of guitar and keys, the rhythm section of bass and drums, and most importantly at all, those angelic harmonic vocals crooning those inspirational lyrics that fill Jimmy's heart with a secret love.

"Jesus Christ. Despite the fact that Christ's name was mud in the culture at large, Jimmy couldn't get enough of him.

"Sure, a lot of it was teenage rebellion, but there was more to it than just that. Much more.

"Worshipping Christ filled Jimmy's heart with a sense of purpose and light that he just didn't get hanging out in the Forest or sitting in the Lotus position at the Temple.

"It was the year 42, P.C. (Politically Correct), after the right-wing government had been overthrown following years of widespread corruption and perverted policies that drove the nation to the brink of financial and political ruin, not to mention world war.

"In the ensuing cultural change, christianity was replaced by Gaiaism, which is worship of nature and the Earth Goddess. Earth herself was now regarded as a spiritual being and was to be worshipped accordingly. For the first time in human history, ecology had priority over economy.

"But that was in the far-flung past as far as Jimmy was concerned, he had grown up in tne now established, and stale he thought, Politically Correct Eco-Era.

"It was time for a younger generation to rebel; and Jimmy was the protypical rebel--with a cause. Relegated to the status of curious myth in the P.C. era, the Bible was now catching on with young people who viewed it as the antithesis of the tree-hugging liberalism that cloaked the land.

"And for some, they also viewed the bible/christianity as providing a means to cheat death, buying into the myths that their mortal personality would be retained in full as a 'soul' as they ascend to the right-hand of the father.

"it started with reading second-hand bibles with tattered and dog-eared pages. Then, as these things are wont to do, it escalated. Reading the bible wasn't enough, kids needed other interpretations of christianity; comic book tales of the stations of the cross, videos of old movies like christ's passion , and of course, music.

"Rock music has been the main expresson of rebellion for youth for over a hundred years at that point in history, so it was only natural that the new christian underground would spawn a sub-genre of christian-influenced bands.

"Such as Crossroads, the band Jimmy was listening to. Just then, his favorite part came up, a blistering, celestial guitar solo that rang to the heavens in search of the lord.

"Jimmy, in the security of his locked bedroom, decided to let loose and play air guitar in synch with the multi-bar lead from guitarist Jack O. Hart. And in that moment, Jimmy was finally free of all the green and recycling...

"But only for that moment, for without warning, his closet door burst open and from within emerged...Jimmy's mother!

"For a moment he thought it was a home invader or burglar; but when he recognized the face, it was much worse than a robber or even a murderer or rapist.

"It was his mother--she had been hiding in the closet for ove an hour, waiting for Jimmy to come home, just so she could catch him in the very act of listening to the music he was forbidden to listen to.

"In one fell swoop she grabbed the headphones off of Jimmy's ears and placed them on her own--and the look of horrific shock that etched her face was one Jimmy hoped he'd never see again.

"'Mom!" Jimmy exclaimed, What are you doing here?"

"'Being a good mother, obviously!" She pointed to the CD player. "How--how can you listen to that?"

"Finally, Jimmy couldn't hold back his feelings any longer, and it all burst forth from him: "It's what I believe in, okay? I don't care about all this nature and Gaia-crap."

"Jimmy's mother's mouth hung open in shock, for a moment, then it turned to anger, "How dare you take the Earth Goddess' name in vain! What has this Christian music done to you?"

"'It's made me happy! Something you can't understand, because you don't care if I'm happy! You just want me to believe in what you believe in. But I'm sick of hanging out in some forest, having to drink wine and dance around naked. I want to live a clean, moral life. A lot of us kids do! We want to know we're going to be saved after we die!'"

"Mother was getting exasperated at this point: "Oh, Jimmy, you and your friends can't possibly believe that Christian nonsense. It will ruin you. You're too young to remember how it was before. I was born right around the time we finally put worshipping the Earth above some God nobody ever really knew and could be sure existed."

"That's where you're wrong, mom! It's possible to have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ!"

"That was all Jimmy's mom could take--without another word, she popped open the CD player, stopping the CD and pulled out the disc and promptly cracked it with her bare, furious hands.

"Now it was Jimmy's turn to flash the look of horror; he couldn't believe his mother would actually do that to him.

"Without another word, he stormed past her, out of the bedroom, down the stairs and towards the back door.

"His mother followed him all the way, yelling after him, "Where do you think you're going young man, I wasn't done talking to you."

"But Jimmy didn't care what she had to say and before he walked out, he reached up and pulled down the statue of Goddess Gaia, sending it to the floor with an unceremonious crash, porcelain pieces flying across the kitchen. Jimmy smiled.

"And as he marched out into the waiting world, Jimmy could hear his mother's screams as she discovered her beloved bust of Gracious Gaia had been irreparably demolished.

"He didn't know if he'd ever come back home; he he didn't even know if he'd be allowed home, but he knew if he ever did, he wasn't going to pretend to be into Gaiaism any more. His parents would either accept him as a Christian--or they wouldn't accept him at all."

Pause to let the audience know I'm done with the essay and to get a drink of water for dry mouth and parched lips. Sure, I could've stopped at any point and taken a sip, but I got caught up in the narrative and so concerns over bodily functions were cast by the wayside.

It's not an overwhelmingly enthusiastic response from them, despite the heavy applause. They're probably applauding the effort as much as anything.

Thirst quenched, it's about time I explain exactly what I meant there, and start by addressing the lukewarm reaction right off, instead of trying to spin it into some self-serving b.s.

"I sense by your general reaction there's some confusion as to the underlying theme of my little scenario. Perhaps it will make more sense in the context of a long-standing practice known as 'making demons out of old gods'; the phenomenon of the newly dominant religion casting the god/gods of the previous dominant religion as the very entity of evil that the newly venerated deity is waging spiritual battle against.

"My twist was to project a time when christianity itself would be demonized by a culture that had found a new god-or as in my scenario, a goddess, Gaia.

"I reached this conclusion after the experiences in New York and to a lesser extent, Denver, for once faith is exposed, and the fear that props faith up is transcended, then it cleanly follows that the notion of god/christ as deities to be worshipped can be safely abandoned. From there, I tied it into the notion of turning old gods into demons. .

"For confirmation of this, look no further than how pagan gods, such as the ancient Semetic CEO god Hadad, also called Ba'al ('the Lord'), quickly became hell-dwelling demons once christianity became firmly securing its tentacles around Rome and beyond.

"Since this is my last appearance on this inaugral book tour for the Bye Bull, i thought it would be an appropriate topic, discussing the demise of the old god, jesus christ--and his illustrious father. What lies after christianity? Would it be replaced by some kind of nature-Gaiaism, as described in my scenario? Or by overt materialism, with technology ascending to the forefront of humanity's colllective notion of 'salvation'? Or perhaps, most fittingly, by some kind of legitimate examination of spirituality and mysticism, or possibly a consolidation and unification of legitimate, 'de-religionized' spirituality and advanced technology, such as that which will function on the quantum scale.

"That little scenario isn't something I'd necessarily include in a book, but it was something worth sharing here in this setting--at least I thought so--and I hope at least some of you did, too."

From the nods and smiles dotted against the otherwise poker-faced landscape, can see that some of them did dig my lecture--they got it. Always makes me feel like I wasn't just wasting my time up here, coming up with these ideas, writing them out, etc.

All of that is cast utterly irrelevant upon catching a glimpse of Cassandra, she flashes a quick smile of reassurance and my heart is aflight.

Came to a decision last night, in bed, when I was staring at the ceiling: When we get back to San Francisco, going to talk to Cassandra and let her know that I want to be in a relationship with her.

Would like to do it now, but it's just too weird and awkward, what with her being my bodyguard and all. But in 24 hours, that all changes, she's no longer under Ms. Cabal's hire, assigned to protect me from all those open-minded kin out there opposed to my book.

But for now, am content to have her concerned with my physical well-being on a purely professional level.

But one look at that red hair that comes alive like Medusa when she lets it free has me longing for the time our relations are strictly informal.

That is, if she feels the same way. And admitedly, that's still in doubt, as far as I'm concerned. And part of this reason I'm delaying bringing up the subject with her.

For if she doesn't want to take it beyond that kiss we shared in D.C., it's going to be really hard for me to handle.

But no time for that now--got books to sign. And not that I've ever felt obligated to put on some kind of cheery face for those getting my autograph, but if I start thinking about Cassandra and all the possibilities either negative or positive, I'll space out way too much to interact with anyone. I'll just be a robot signing books.

Besides, not going to know one way or the other until we talk in S.F. A much more romantic setting than L.A.

Some 42 minutes later, the signing portion of this is going so smooth that almost lulled into a trance. Was really expecting more colorful characters--frankly, freaks, in L.A., especially out here adjacent to Venice, but so far everyone's been pretty nondescript.

May have spoke too soon as a tall gangly chap with a baggy black trenchcoat and stringy hair--it almost seems like he's wearing a wig of some sort--steps up with a big bold gold crucifix wrapped around his neck--but no book.

If he's being a smart-ass, I can stand right with him; gesturing to his cross with my pen, I ask, "Don't tell me--you want me to sign that? That's a first."

He shakes his head ever so slightly and smiles jovially: "No, but I would like you to sign this--"

And with that, this wig wearing whacko pulls open his oversized trenchcoat to reveal some kind of bomb strapped to his belly.

"Bet signing this will be a first for you too, huh?" He asks with a grin hiding gritted teeth. This lad doesn't like me.

Glance out the corner of each eye and don't see Cassandra. Where the hell is she?

Foolishly, I try the calm approach, "Now, don't do anything you're going to regret--"

"The only thing I'd regret is letting you walk out of this room alive. Burn in hell, Grimm--"

And in the next instant, a frozen instant, a dream instant, the wig wearer clicks something in his hand and the entire room is a fiery flash--

And then, what follows may be the oddest sensory experience of my life--as shards of hot stinging metal rain across my face and into my eyes--but then that pain is instantly replaced by relief in the form of warm flesh, soft cheek pressed against mine; soft, even as it comes as a smack of flesh and hair against my face--it's Cassandra, of course, know that even while blinded.

"Ohhhh!" she cries out in pain, likely from having taken the brunt of the blast.

How the hell did she do it? Defies logic--and physics. She must have leapt from wherever the hell she was, across the signing table I'm seated at, to put herself between me and the nasty bits from the bomb strapped to that lunatic, who is hopefully deceased.

But can't really concentrate on him as I fly down from my seat and smash the back of my head onto a cold hard floor.

But that pain is relieved as a pair of lips press against mine and then a nimble tongue parting my lips and buries itself as in my mouth and wraps itself around my tongue as if to provide my tongue, my mouth, my whole being, with the necessary reassurance, that she's going to get me through this no matter what.

But there's more; this french kiss of epic proportions isn't merely seeking to offer me some temporary solace amidst the madness; no, it's also telling me that we--she and I--Cassandra and Darwin--are going to be together when we get back up to the Bay Area; that we do have something beyond the spontaneity of being thrust together during this often unhinged book tour.

And that kiss also tells me no matter how scarred my face is, she's going to stick by me, because she sees past the physical stuff, and that's never why she was into me in the first place.

And the kiss lingers as the madness above around and beyond us commences; people screaming, shouting, crying, running, stumbling, scrambling, rambling, calling friends and 9-1-1 on their phones.

And the kiss lingers as I fade from consciousness. Apparently that bump on the head was harder than I thought...





ONE POSITIVE CONSEQUENCE OF THE BOMBING, SALES SKYROCKET, AND I BECOME MORE PROMINENT
I NOTE THAT THE NEW MARKETING STRATEGY FOR JAN WAS SUDDENLY NOT NECESSARY...UNLESS THIS WAS THE NEW STRATEGY...WOULD MS CABAL BE SO MACHIAVELLIAN? AM I INSANE FOR SUSPECTING HER OF THIS?